From day one, my life has been filled with cats. My family loved them and always had them around. I guess I inherited an appreciation for them. From my viewpoint, there’s no such thing as an ugly cat.
I was just a kid; Elvis (my sister chose that name) was a scared little white male kitten I rescued from the Charlotte Mecklenburg pound (that’s an older Elvis and I during some mid ’80s goth phase at the top). At the time he took to me immediately. Eventually he discovered my mother’s lap and I became obsolete. I was too rowdy, after all.
Then one day Hayworth came into my life. A friend at Belk (where I worked at the time) brought her into the visual department in a brown paper bag that smelled like Mennen Speed Stick. I never understood the odor or why anyone would carry a kitten in a paper bag, but the two of us bonded immediately.
She was the love of my life! We moved around the country together and we were inseparable until a new romance and an allergic boyfriend required her to sleep in another area of the house. She didn’t like that very much, but eventually adapted. We spent quality time together on the couch in front of the TV in the evenings.
At only six years of age Hayworth died suddenly from a toxic reaction to a flea collar. I think of her now — 14 years later — and I am still pained by her death.
These days my partner and I share a mean three-legged Calico (she’s not mean to me but she did bite his big toe the first night he stayed over) and a crazy Jack Russell Terrier mix named Betty that can clear the ground by three feet when jumping for her favorite squeaky toy.
I do like dogs. And even though cats have surrounded me mostly — there was another dog in my life once besides crazy Betty.
He was a real funny looking thing that looked like a cross between a German Shepard and a Chihuahua. Long, spindly legs balancing a smaller version of a Shepard-like body and a snout with those infamous German Shepard moles. He quivered just like a Chihuahua when he got nervous, too. Of course, he was probably an unidentifiable mixture of various canine species, but that was what he looked like anyway.
He ambled into my life one day when I was living in a loft space in a rundown section of downtown Atlanta. There he was, weaving in and out of cars like a pro. I knew his luck wasn’t going to last forever, so I charged down the stairs — grabbing some cat food on the way out to use as a lure — hoping to rescue him from what looked like almost certain doom.
He must’ve known I was coming, because he was waiting for me at the bottom of the landing.
It didn’t take any effort to coax him — he followed me straight back up the stairs and promptly cowered in the corner while Hayworth growled and hissed at the unwanted visitor menacingly.
She’d get over it.
The dog was in poor condition — he didn’t look too different from some of the homeless guys that hung out on Broad Street — and he didn’t smell too good either. I sensed he’d been without a family for a while, but he was well loved when he did have one. He was extremely friendly and quick to understand commands.
After I gave the dog a bath, I decided I’d take him to work with me. In those days I was a studio manager for a public access cable station, so the environment was unorthodox. We helped independent producers from every walk of life get their message out — usually once a week. The place was filled with artists and freethinkers who immediately fell in love with the funky-looking little dog. He quickly took to his surroundings and delighted in charging up and down the hallways, dancing around new visitors happily.
Then one day a group of Muslim women came to the studio for a production of a show entitled, “Oh Ye Muslim.”
I got along fine with the Muslims. They knew I was gay and — while they didn’t approve — most were still professionally respectful. After having worked with them for a few years, I’d actually learned a lot about Islam, but I was unaware that they — at least this particular group of women — viewed the dog as “unclean.”
The women, dressed head-to-toe in berkas with only veiled slits for their eyes, ran from the dog while screaming, “Get that thing away from me. He’s unclean. We can’t touch him.”
The dog, of course, thought all the noise and running about was playtime so he chased them through the studio hall, jumping around and nipping at their skirts.
Realizing I was committing a spiritual faux pas on some level, I quickly scooped the dog up and locked him in my office for the remainder of the day. Needless to say, he wasn’t too happy.
I never found a name for the skinny mutt, and as time wore on it became obvious he was cramped in my downtown loft space.
Eventually I found an elderly woman in a nearby suburb, with a huge backyard for lots of dancing about, who adopted him. I hope he lived happily ever after.
David Moore Editor
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